The Life Criterion
by Barkinglot
Summary: Alfred, a junior doctor, was new to the job at a small sanatorium hospital called Brehmer. There he met this patient about his age, Arthur Kirkland, whom later Alfred was assigned to look after.
1. Prologue

**Title:** The Life Criterion

**Author:** Barkinglot

**Genre: **Drama. Hurt/Comfort. Romance?

**Pairing:** America/England

**Rating/Warnings:** PG for language and medicine(?)

**Summary:** Alfred, a junior doctor, was new to his job at a small sanatorium hospital called Brehmer. There he met this patient about his age, Arthur Kirkland, whom later Alfred was assigned to look after. Would Alfred be able to treat Arthur for the consumptive disease? Would Arthur be cured? What would happen to them during the course of treatment?

Original request: hetalia-kink_livejournal_com / 13943.h tml?thread= 4334071# t34334071 (replace _ with . )

The name Brehmer was taken since the first tuberculosis sanatorium was opened in 1854 in Görbersdorf, Germany (today Sokołowsko, Poland) by Hermann Brehmer.

This was my first Hetalia story. Hope you will enjoy.

* * *

**The Life Criterion**

**Prologue**

The sanatorium stood upon a green hill, surrounded by thick woods, and was barely in sight from distance. It was a building full of history, old and antique and facing south. The roads, paved with thin asphalt, lead to the main hall through the meadow and bushes like a winding gray stream. Its interior, however, was amazingly new. Alfred was stunned on his first arrival. He hadn't expected greetings from the shiny high-tech front desk and the modern hallway.

He started his first year of residency here in Brehmer Sanatorium, now called Brehmer Hospital, spending most of his time in the new hospital wing. He was perfectly aware that it's not usual for a junior doctor to work at a sanatorium-hospital, but a professor he knew suggested he start his residency at Brehmer.

"You've been rushing, Alfred my friend. I think it's time for you to slow down a little." It was hardly a surprise. Alfred had been quite a standout during his college years. Successful and exceptional, he got his degree and license in the same year at the age of twenty six.

So he understood, really, though the idea of slowing down always left him in unease. It was like he was being lazy. Shunning work and duty he should have born and having others deal with the weight. It was not right. But still he took the advice. Not that he was tired or anything. That's something he had seen coming and knew he could handle.

"Take it as a challenge." The professor had said, "When you leave Brehmer, you'll look old enough to seem reliable. Let's see whether you could slow down yet stay . . . what's the word . . . awesome?"

His supervisor was Honda Kiku, an Asian man who looked much younger than his actual age. _And Abe told me to slow down,_ Alfred thought when they first met, _when there are people looking younger than me working their asses off._ Despite his deceiving appearance, Kiku was nice, kind to guide, and patient to explain. They got along pretty well. Besides Kiku knew Alfred's way of learning. Most of the time he only gave brief instructions and left Alfred plenty of time to practice. "Professor Lincoln spoke highly of you. I'm afraid there is little I can teach you." he smiled and went on. "Experience is all I can assure of you here."

There were many reasons why people become doctors. To know. To save lives. To make a difference. But none of these was the reason why Alfred F Jones chose medicine as his profession. To him, there was only one reason, always had been. It was to prove.

Alfred became a doctor because he could.

As a boy of nothing he was the only one who could reach the highest branch all other kids dreaded to approach. (_"Al! Get down! You'll break your neck!"_) He never fell. He never let down or backed down. By getting A pluses and hitting home-runs he proved it to them. Again and again. They all looked at him in awe and he seldom disappointed. It never occurred to him exactly why even in his rare solitude. All he knew was not many people were able to reach the height.

But surely he could and he would. That's good enough for him.

So Alfred took the challenge, as he always did.

He was going to show them.


	2. Chapter 1

Compared with the hospitals where he had done his internship, days in Brehmer seemed very still. In the hospital wing things were sparkly new so it sort of went unnoticed, but in the old sanatorium building it's plain and obvious. Alfred used to get lost first week, and that was not an enjoyable experience, reminding him of something (transparent and starting with a G) he rather put behind his mind. The odyssey ended with him running into the nurses station, never once in his life more at ease listening to those chatter patters. He became familiar to the buildings now. Though during the days and nights when he did his routine visits, he would again see how cold and abandoned the sanatorium truly was.

It happened when he finally grew accustomed to Brehmer and began to settle down. The time was near eleven and he had just finished his morning round. An average day except the vile weather. From the windows of the corridors the fields were gloomy under the heavy downpour. On his way across the hall toward the clinic he saw a man stepping in, dragging a battered old trunk behind. The man was soaked, leaving a trail of water in his wake toward the front desk.

He wore a mask, Alfred noticed, which was also drenched and marked out his cheek and nose.

Alfred watched as the man spoke to the young nurse working the front desk. They appeared to come into a disagreement, not quiet an argument since them both didn't raise their voice. But Alfred could see the nurse all nervous and fail to meet the man's requires; therefore he stepped in to solve the conflict like a hero he was.

"Everything fine there, Diane?"

"Ah! Doctor Jones." The nurse seemed greatly relieved. She gestured toward the man. "This mister here insists that he needs to see Dr. Honda now, saying that he had an appointment but I didn't find his name on the list . . ."

The man before him turned. He was about the same age with him. Alfred could smell the rain and feel the cold seeping. He frowned. It was summer but that did not mean one wouldn't get pneumonia or catch a cold.

"Junior doctor Alfred F Jones." He held out his hand. "Your name, please?"

". . . Kirkland. Arthur Kirkland." For a few moments the man in mask seemed taken aback, but took his hand anyway. It was cold as ice. Alfred wondered if he had walked his way up the hill in the storm.

"Arthur then. Don't worry, Diane," he flashed his trademark smile to the nurse before heading to the hallway. "I'll take it from here. This way please."

The sound of raindrops on the window panes filled their walk through the hallway. Alfred had offered to carry the trunk for him but the man - Arthur, now he knew his name, shook and clung to it. Alfred shrugged. It wasn't his first time dealing with a patient like this. He led the way. Their footsteps bounced and echoed between the walls, little white noise in the peaceful corner of Brehmer. While a gust howled through the corridor Alfred heard a muffled sound. A cough, thick and painful, coming from the depth of the throat as if one was choking. He spun around.

"I'd better get you dry. Or you'll catch your death before you could see Kiku. There is a staff room not too far-"

Arthur tried to say something between the strings of cough but Alfred went on talking.

"Look, Kiku is doing the clinic so it's gonna take a while. Don't worry. I've paged him. Let's get you dry first."

Lucky for him that Arthur did not argue, or start another worrisome cough the rest of the way. He only spoke up when Alfred had him sit on the sofa in the staff room. His trunk was laid not far away, where a puddle of rain slowly taking shape.

"Do you always call Dr. Honda by his name?" Came his voice muffled through the mask.

Alfred, who had been fumbling through the cabinets for towel, found it and tossed it to him. "Well, I guess so. He's cool with that."

"And you're a junior." he huffed.

Alfred pulled a face, glad he started making coffee at the sink with his back to the man. Not that he did not respect Kiku. Of course not! The man was awesome. He just . . . didn't see the reason to be so stuck up all the time. They taught him in school, in college, and back when he was just a squishy intern: medicine required teamwork. Anyone who had a problem working as a team should better go. Then wouldn't it be easier to team up with a friend? Apparently Arthur got something to say about that. Well, to tell the truth, almost everyone he'd met had their sayings about that.

"Eyes could fool you." he grinned, giving out his standard reply in situation likewise. After handing Arthur a mug of coffee, he sat down with his own at the other side across the table.

The room was warm and cozy. The winds and rain were now nothing more but static. After wiping off the rains with the towel, Arthur wrinkled his nose at the drink. From the lines and looks directed at the mug Alfred guessed it would be reasonably hard to befriend him. _His loss,_ thought Alfred. Coffee is bliss! It had helped him go through countless lectures and tests and textbooks, now through endless shifts and rounds.

They sat there while the clock ticked quietly away. Alfred was the one enjoying drinking, no surprise. Arthur's cup was held between his hands untouched. He didn't even take off his mask. After a few fruitless try to start some harmless conversation, Alfred had nothing better to do but study the other man from across the rim of his own mug, a habit developed after years of practice. He could only see Arthur's features above the pale cheekbones. Unruly sandy hair (almost dry), dark lashes (still a bit damp), clear green eyes (staring into the cup and somehow lost). _That's really enormous eyebrows,_ he noted when Arthur pushed away a stray lock of hair at his forehead.

Something caught Alfred's wondering mind. Why did he come to Brehmer anyway? Due to the location, they hardly got any case in the ER. Besides, if he wanted to see a doctor, he wasn't supposed to be here; he should rather go to the hospital wing or the clinic. Speaking of the clinic . . .

"Kiku is surely taking his time." Alfred glanced at his watch, putting his cup down. "If you don't mind I could do the physical, or take history now, better than just waiting."

At this Arthur looked up. "It's okay. I'll wait."

* * *

Kiku arrived at the staff room ten after twelve.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, Arthur." He said at once as he closed the door. "Diane told me, so thank you, Alfred. For taking care of him when I was unavailable."

". . . I can take good care of myself." Arthur muttered. He stood up the moment Kiku entered.

Alfred rolled his eyes.

A faint smile graced the Asian's lips. "Please don't say so. It would be terrible if you fall sick because of me."

Arthur fell silent. Alfred was curious to find his ears a palest pink. "Huh. You two know each other?"

Kiku nodded, gesturing Arthur to sit down. "Yes. But I don't think that is the issue today. I got the letter from Dr Wang, and he sent along your history. He said you would be here for further diagnosis."

Arthur sat and said nothing. Kiku took a few papers out of his briefcase. It appeared like some report from a local clinic. "Would you mind if Alfred stays here? I am assigned as his director, and he's really good and helpful most of the time."

To Alfred's surprise, Arthur shook his head. From their earlier exchange, he had assumed he would ask him to leave, and Alfred would simply be fine with that; it's Kiku he came to see anyway.

"You wouldn't mind if he sees your history and test results then?" Politely Kiku asked again, his black eyes showing concern.

". . . no," a light cough, "No, I wouldn't mind."

Kiku nodded; then handed the papers to Alfred, "Tell me what you see."

They had done this before. Usually without a patient's presence though. Kiku would find a case, and ask him what his diagnosis was, like pop-up tests. Alfred would see through them, say his answers, and get right. This time was no exception. Alfred read on.

_Patient male, 23 y/o, chief complaint: long-lasting cough starting about a months ago . . . cough productive, occasionally blood-streaked . . . other symptoms included fever, malaise, weigh loss __. . .__ lab data provided below . . . urine . . . blood test . . . white count 17000/ul. . ._

"Did the doctor do a chest X ray?" he asked, eyes never left the reports he was holding.

As if sensing his question coming, Kiku passed him the film. Alfred grabbed it and strode to the light panel nearby, shoved the film on and hit the button.

It was obvious.

". . . Hilar lymph nodes enlargement. Infiltration in upper right field . . ." tearing his gaze from the film, he turned around to the men sitting on the sofa. "Do an acid-fast stain and if . . ."

He saw Kiku's expression, and the rest of the sentence died on his lips.

"It's done," said his director, "it's positive."

_What further diagnosis then? This was final._ The room fell silent and Alfred cursed his telltale facial expressions, he was never good at front. Strange how he saw things which normally went unnoticed. The subtle and sad shadow over Kiku's face. The way Arthur blinked, his eyes unfocused and far off.

He knew Kiku was waiting. They both knew he had not done answering. It's time like this Alfred disliked the most. He got his answers right, and people went into denial. _It's my job. It would have been worse if I got it wrong. _That's how he had thought and was still telling himself. Then it dulled. Now he almost felt nothing.

". . . Sputum culture takes at least six weeks. Tuberculin skin test. If positive, we start the treatment." Alfred wondered if Arthur was still with them. It's against the rule to leave out patients in diagnosis. Nevertheless Arthur showed no interest in getting into the conversation, or demanding for explanation. Actually he hardly showed anything. Whether it was because of the mask he wore, Alfred wasn't sure.

"Do the skin test first. Then culture. Anything else, Alfred?"

"Possible contact history. IV drug use or any underlying disease." _Such as HIV._ The last few words went unsaid. Somehow he knew Kiku read it through air.


	3. Chapter 2

Phthisis. White plague. Consumption. These are the names of tuberculosis, caused by a group of bacilli called mycobacteria. Dating back a few thousands years, it has coexisted with mankind and weaved its path of death through human history. Medicine had come so close to sealing it in the past till retrovirus boosted it to its newest height, now at a soaring peak with millions of cases over the globe.

This, sadly, was not the version Alfred had adopted.

No one would blame him for sleeping through most of the History of Medicine. Alfred patched it up by his awesome self learning skill, so what he knew went as follows: once there was a guy named Dr Robert Koch; he was the hero who dived into infectious disease, and the one to nail the bastard. Now skip some rather boring years they got to the mid-twentieth century, one after another antibiotics came into being and brought TB the notorious villain to its downfall. Everything was fine and dandy and the future was hopefully promising.

But the happy-ever-after never did come.

So when Arthur asked him in an empty examining room, a "_This is bad, isn't it."_ with a voice too quiet, Alfred blurted out a frantic _"No!"_ and gone very close to telling him that it is not and he would be cured.

"It depends," instead he said, "on the strand of bacteria and the response to the drugs."

Slowly and steadily, he drew the needle out, and left the cotton ball pressed under Arthur's fingers. Blood sampling done. Skin test next. Kiku had given him the tasks. Alfred couldn't grasp why. Perhaps he just wanted to give him more practice. Perhaps he noted, as Kiku never failed to, how Alfred had, much unlike his usual self, held back and thus needed a chance to sort it out.

"You ever got BCG vaccine, Arthur?"

"Why?" queried Arthur, a moment later, seemingly confused, ". . . if I did, I won't get ill?"

"No, it's not like that. The vaccine only protects children from tuberculosis meningitis, not lung TB in adults." He explained, "I'm asking because if you did, then the test may show a false positive."

A long pause.

". . . I don't remember."

"It's okay. Could you show me you arms? 'Cause if you did, it should have left a mark at the injection point."

Arthur neatly rolled his shirtsleeves up to the shoulders. Alfred didn't see anything indicating vaccination. He did notice how pale and lean Arthur was, he could see the veins mapping and thin muscles rippling beneath. It all figured now. Pallor. Cough. Mask. He was certain about the diagnosis once he heard that acid-fast is positive, yet he'd left room to differ. Had Arthur known the severity of the disease? Had he suspected? Was that why he wore a mask?

"I'm gonna do the skin test now, y'ok?"

Arthur looks tired but nodded in response.

"This' gonna hurt a little. . . " Feeling Arthur wincing when the needle pushed in, Alfred mentally kicked himself for not having informed him fast enough.

When the entire dose was injected, he pulled it out, pick up a pen, and drew a star on Arthur's forearm to encircle it.

"Okay. We will see the results in hours."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"So we'll just wait?"

"Yeah."

"Why a star?"

"Well, some people draw circles." Alfred shrugged, "I prefer stars."

Although his (huge) brows furrowed and his green eyes narrowed in distaste, Alfred was most certainly sure that Arthur was smiling. Or scorning, whatsoever.

He was glad Arthur was happy. Even just for the briefest second.

Because he was going to ask questions far from pleasant.

"Uh, you don't do drugs right?"

"You saw my arms three minutes ago."

"Just get to hear it from you. So . . . never?"

"No."

"Know any person around you that has TB?"

". . . no."

"Ever lived on the streets or stayed at foster homes?"

"What did that have to do with this?"

Alfred decided he'd better get through this as fast as possible. "Look, it's important. If you have any of these risks, it would help us diagnose and decide on the treatment."

"I thought you were sure."

"It helps. So. Anything?"

He just shook and remained silent. Alfred didn't know if he was trying to recall, or meant to drop the subject. Damn, it's hard to tell when one wore a mask. He searched those eyes for hints, but they were lidded and downcast. It must be hard to have your life crashing down around you, Alfred thought. Because he was sure as hell feeling like shit just to be the one breaking the bad news; he would never grow used to it. Still there were differences. To him it's his job. To them it's their lives. He felt sad but the sadness had an entirely different weight.

"How long will it take?" Arthur broke the ice. He wasn't staring at his forearm anymore; instead he looked directly into Alfred's eyes, as if demanding the unabridged truth and daring him not to lie.

"Six months if all goes well." Alfred answered.

"What happens if it doesn't?"

"Nine months. A year. A year and a half. The worst is that you might never be cured, that it will stick with you the rest of your life."

Alfred glanced to the test tube filled with Arthur's blood. Tuberculosis was not called consumption for nothing. It's hard to treat. It relapsed. It took its time. It could stay dormant and insidious for years; then when the immune system was worn away over time by other diseases, it bounced out and claimed lives. That's why some said there was no full recovery in the case of TB. Not to mention the growing drug resistance in mere decades.

Alfred left all those unpleasant thoughts in the plastic vial of crimson. He looked back to the man. Arthur was young. Surely he had a good chance.

"I'll ask the nurse to get you a clean gown and a room, so you could stay here till the test results are out." Alfred tried to dispel the tension in the room. "And I better be off to do the blood test and get myself a lunch."

"What about the sputum test? Aren't we supposed to do it now?" Arthur asked when he saw Alfred standing up.

"Oh, that." Alfred began to like this guy, he never missed a thing. "I guess we'll have to do that tomorrow morning. Don't worry, Arthur, I will-"

His pager chose this moment to go off. "Come to tell you how to do it this evening."

At time like this, Alfred suspected his pager knew something. It always went off when he was so starved, and wanted nothing but a bite of his juicy hamburger, or when he was so sleep-deprived that he was about to pass out. Or both, when it wanted to be a sucker punch. So he grabbed the test tube, bade a hasty goodbye to Arthur, and went hurrying for the call. Now he had to drop by the laboratory and ask someone else to run the test for him.

"I'd rather get a room myself." He heard Arthur saying way behind, obviously amused. Then there was something just audible and almost grateful.

He probably imagined it.

* * *

The afternoon was a disaster. Due to the storm, three cars piled up in the highway not far from the hill, and Alfred was recruited to help the ER. They did some primary surgery and trauma care, got most of the victims transferred to medical centers, leaving only the minor-injured to stay behind at Brehmer. Still it was a mess. The weather didn't show any sign of getting better. By the time Alfred got to sit down and have a cup of coffee a nurse kindly offered him, it started to thunder. His hands were shaking from the adrenaline rush. They weren't when he carried out the CPR. Now he could barely feel his arms. _They will sore like hell tomorrow,_ his mind numbly pointed out, _and I haven't had my lunch._ Maybe he could go to find Kiku later, and get some rice balls he brought.

Alfred knew he was, in fact, the youngest doctor in Brehmer, with the second youngest a pathologist named Braginski or Brastinky, who was spending his mid thirties holing away drinking in the morgue, Alfred supposed it's the fair reason why he always got recruited when energy was required. The fact that he hadn't decided his specialty might be a reason as well. It's part of the challenge. Postponing choosing a specialty. In professor Lincoln's terms, slow down.

Toris from the lab was willing to run the test for him. "HIV? Want me to run other tests or culture?" Alfred wished he could have turned that down. _Any_ underlying disease. That's what he told Kiku. He even thought about checking genetic or autoimmune diseases. Wegner's granulomatosis, Goodpasture's syndrome, anything possible. _Yeah, like those have better prognoses,_ said a voice in the back of his head, _you know no way that's gonna happen. He's too young for Wegner's, let alone its incidence. And there was no renal symptom to suggest—_

Alfred groaned, stood up, and tossed the empty paper cup into the trashcan. The devil was going to break loose from hell, if he didn't find some stuff to eat soon enough. Change first. Then eat. Then he would go do his night round. Pacing through the corridors, he wondered what Arthur was doing now. Waiting in a hospital room for his test results to come out. Maybe inspecting the star Alfred had drawn him. He doubted it. The man probably brought something to kill time. _I wish I get some time to kill, too._

The sanatorium building had only about thirty patients. Their illness ranged from subacute to chronic, physical to psychological; their stays were measured in month. Alfred's daily work was to check their condition and progress, to confirm that each of them took their meds and adjust the dosages if necessary. There were patients who had poorly controlled diabetes, patients who were at the end stage of malignancies, and patients who had never once waken up when Alfred did his routine check. Quiet and pallid, all these lives wrapped up in white hospital sheets and gowns, like cheap dirt under thick layers of snow.

Normally, it took him three to four hours to finish one round. Night and morning rounds were tougher. A few times Alfred got called up at three o'clock in the morning just to thrash tubes down some patients' airways, and plug them onto the respirator. The wheels of the crash cart skidded across the night and ripped the silence raw open. In the hospital room lit by a lifeless glow, he put paddles on patients' chests and charged. Droplets of infusions fell without a sound, shattering into a hundred insignificant bits in a fraction of a second. Other than that, the rooms were frozen in time with regular beeps and low humming of non-organics.

Alfred stopped at the doorpost of Arthur's room. From where he stood, he could see Arthur sitting on the bed reading, his hair strangely blonde under the fluorescent light, his wrists popped out from the sleeves of the faint blue gown, long fingers holding the book in place, eyes focused and concentrated. Alfred had come to tell him how to collect the sputum sample as promised, yet for a transient moment he just stood there, time and space forgotten.

The moment passed and Alfred stepped into the room, beaming. "Hey."

"Ah." Arthur jerked his head up from the pages. "I didn't notice you were here. Maybe you should knock."

He laughed. "Dude, this is hospital, not some fancy hotel room."

"Still."

From that he knew he had somehow surprised Arthur, interrupted his reading so to speak. "It must be really interesting, that book."

"It would be more interesting if I were at home." He tucked the book away. Alfred saw the scarlet hard covers but didn't catch the title.

"I came to hand you this," he reached into the pocket of his coat, took out a small lidded jar. "It's a sterile container for your sample."

He handed Arthur the container, and went on while it was set in the other man's palm under survey. "Don't open it now. The best time to collect a sputum sample is in the morning, first thing after you woke up and brushed your teeth."

Arthur turned over the container, fascinated as if it were something new to him.

"Open it. Put the sample in it, screw the lid and hand it in." said Alfred, "Note that the sample must be _directly_ put into the container. And spit is not sputum. No cheating."

"I know I'll have to cough it out." At this Arthur lifted his eyes from it, and cast him a look that Alfred read as a scoff. Alfred grinned in return and noticed something.

"You changed your mask, Arthur?"

"Um, yes. The old one was sodden, so one of the nurses gave it to me . . ." He was touching the mask without knowing, his brows knitted together in thoughts. "All they talked about was you."

"Uh, what?"

Arthur scowled. "You don't know?"

"Well, I know they like me." Alfred scratched the back of his head. "Got me a really nice birthday party in the hospital a few weeks ago, saved my birthday."

"I thought someone like you would call the day off."

"Fat chance, man, I practically live in this place. And what are those patients gonna do if I'm off? They need me."

Only then did Alfred recall that Arthur was now one of his patients. _No, Arthur is Kiku's patient._ But what difference was there? Alfred let out a nervous laugh, not wanting to let go of the conversation just yet.

"Anyway, what did they say about me?"

"Oh, why don't you go and ask them? So to spare me from their bloody _giggling_."

"That's not gonna happen. 'Cause I'm awesome and they'll talk about me anyway." He chuckled. "So you can just tell me."

"Don't you have works to do?"

"Then tell me."

". . . I want to read. Alone."

"Aw, c'mon. I'm curious."

As Alfred watched the man ruffle, what the nurses had said about him became less and less important. Though it's not that obvious under the lamp and the mask, Alfred was amused to find that Arthur was brushing. _Geez his ears turned red. Did they really say something that embarrassing?_

Minutes passed. Knowing that Alfred would not leave him alone unless he got his answer, Arthur finally mumbled with great reluctance. "They all want to know why a doctor so- w-why a doctor like you would want to be here."

"That's it?"

"No. They wondered how berks could be doctors now."

"I thought they would want to know if I got a girlfriend."

A snort.

"Hey, y'know? You can tell them I'm looking for one."

"Like hell I will." Arthur grumbled under his breath.

Alfred stayed for a bit longer, not leaving for his night shifts until he thought Arthur was probably going to hurl the book at him. It was . . . refreshing, to him at least, especially after a busy afternoon in chaos. His heart lightened up as he walked through the evening corridors. Outside the windows, the thunders split up the dense rainclouds, shooting monochromes in rows. It might be another tough night but he was if not readier, ready as ever.


	4. Chapter 3

The birthday party the nurses held for him was not exactly fancy or big. It was, however, nice to spend the last few moments of one's birthday on something more than just a usual graveyard shift. They brought him a cake, bags of donuts and sang him birthday songs. Alfred really appreciated it. He liked nurses; they were cute and sweet and helped a lot. Unlike doctors, they often got transferred or left Brehmer for a better job. It's reasonable they took guesses about his presence.

Well, reasonable he supposed . . . But saying that he only came to backwater Brehmer, because he was left no choice, after being kicked out from the previous hospital due to an (_amorous_) affair with his former director's wife was just— _too much!_ Alfred was horror-struck when he found out what the nurses had told Arthur. Did they really think that was why he was here? God, what did they take him for? He got this feeling that he stood out in Brehmer like a sore thumb no less, but seriously, dude, he hadn't had sex or been in a relationship since his _ex-_girlfriend dumped his ass, which was busted for internship and that was so, so ancient like, a _million_ years ago. Sometime nurses were really beyond him.

Pros and cons went along with a career. Guess that's all he could say. He was that kind of doctor whose rumors were much more widespread than the talents (which, mind you, was good enough on its own account). He knew things and saved lives, met people and lost contacts. He owned an empty apartment just for sleeping, bath, and clothes. He felt fulfilled at his work.

Kiku, when he didn't have meetings or clinic to take care about, spent most afternoon visiting the sanatorium. He cared about all his patients, that much Alfred could tell from the time he had seen his mentor searching articles and textbooks for a case. Sometimes when a personal examination was not allowed, Kiku would even page him to have lunch together, just so Alfred could brief him on the patients' progress. As a chief doctor, his assigned hours for rounds are considerably fewer than Alfred's. But from the first day at Brehmer, he had told Alfred to feel free to call him if anything happened. "It's not about ability, Alfred. You are a resident that looks out for me. But they have been my patients before you were here." Alfred dealt with whatever fell upon him. It's not that hard.

When asked about how he had got to know Arthur, Kiku wrapped it up in one single sentence.

"I've known Arthur since he was in the high school." He smiled apologetically to Alfred's pout. "That's all I could say. Doctor-patient confidentiality, you understand."

Alfred knew his mentor was good with secrets, and if Kiku didn't bring up anything from the past, it's very possible it had nothing to do with the diagnosis at hand. Therefore Alfred didn't delve into it.

Western blot took two days; the result came out with the tuberculin test. Arthur was negative for HIV, no virus or bacterium or any kind of antigen in his blood. Toris told Alfred that he had sent part of Arthur's sputum sample urgent to his friend Eduard, whose laboratory could do the PCR.

"He said we'd have the result within a week." Toris eyed the papers as he passed it to Alfred. "Here is the liver function test I did asides from the culture. In case you need to buy time and start the treatment."

They had to. The skin test was positive.

_Of course._ Alfred thought as he took in the size of induration at the center of his star. Together they now looked like a bizarre pattern of curse. _The sputum culture will show positive for tuberculosis, no doubt. Glad we cleared that out._ He cast a glance to Kiku, who came in for the results, and was off duty from the out-patient department that morning. He looked thoughtful. The room waited quietly for his next words.

"We'll start the treatment now." He spoke out of his ponder. "But before this, I have to ask you, Arthur, about one thing."

Arthur's reply was on the border of nonchalance. "Which is?"

"I was thinking, perhaps instead of me, it will be more appropriate for Alfred to be your attendant."

Alfred barely had enough time to process the words his director just said. "What?" _Attendant?_ For a junior like him?

"But you've treated me before," countered Arthur. He and Kiku both ignored Alfred's little outburst.

"I did. But it's riskier now, for me to treat someone rather close. It will be up to you after all."

Arthur's frown was clear between his brows. "You are saying you care about me . . . but don't want to treat me?"

"I'm saying I don't want to risk anything, especially not a friend's wellbeing." Kiku explained, "And as I've said, it's your call."

"Wait, wait. You decided this without telling me?" Alfred cut into the conversation, voicing to Kiku his disbelief. "You should have told me."

"If I remember correctly, Alfred, you were the one asking for variance?"

Now Alfred remembered he did mention it before, that he wanted something different, a case other than his routine rounds, a case not of Kiku but his own. But he was more like just saying. He had not been expecting it, not this fast, not in this form, not . . . Arthur.

"You are giving me this case because I asked?" Alfred gaped in mistrust, still unable to fathom the notion.

"Whether or not you will have this case depends on Arthur." Seemingly Kiku was the only one who stayed calm in this room. "And if I am giving you this case, it's because you're ready."

"What if I said no?" Arthur demanded before Alfred uttered his doubt.

"Then I'll treat you in person as I did before; meanwhile Alfred will remain to be my assistant." As if he had guessed Arthur's next question, he said, "And even if you choose Alfred to be your attendant, I will still supervise."

"Then why . . ."

Alfred was as confused as Arthur. These two choices were not much different. Kiku would still pay the closest attention to Arthur's case, Alfred was certain. And he would put Alfred on it no matter what. That meant the difference would lie only in whose name they would use to present it. Despite that, as a junior, Alfred knew very well he was, when came down to it, Kiku's responsibility.

"You don't have to decide now. Whoever the attendant is, the medication of the first duration is quite constant." Kiku continued, "Right now you're under my name. But feel free if you change your mind."

"You mean it . . ." Arthur stared at his doctor, who practically just hinted that the title to be reconsidered. With shock, realization and a trace of hurt written over the skeptical look on his face, Arthur mumbled, ". . . you really don't want to . . ."

"I don't want to put my friend at risk, that's all." Kiku assured with a gentle smile.

_Then what about me?_ Alfred felt conflicted.

He hated it when Kiku decided things without telling him. It's not fair. But he was the one who asked. Back then he had done it without really considering; not keen to get his hope up. Now it's granted. There was no way he wouldn't want it. Once the surprise and the sense of being tricked began to fade, he could feel it clearer and stronger in the pit of his stomach, a slow boil through his vessels. Thrill. Excitement. Anticipation. Pivot around the desire to show. He was ready. That's why Kiku had offered it. That's why he was here at the first place. He got to do something. _Do what?_ The same small whispering._ The puzzle was solved. Final answer. The treatment is set; the disease is slow. Just another-_ His stomach flipped and Alfred sent his head into a frenzy shake; later settled on chewing the inside of his cheeks. He didn't just think that. Not entirely . . .

"I'll think about it." Seemed when Alfred did his tune out, Arthur had regained his bearing. "Could we start the treatment now?"

Kiku gave him a quick nod, "I supposed we should."

Quietly the chief doctor placed the pill bottles on the table attached to the hospital bed, forming a line of jars. "Here are your medications. They ought to be taken once per day, through ingestion."

"Five pills at a time?"

"Yes. Four of them are antibiotics. And one to reduce the side effect." At this Kiku glanced to Alfred, "Unfortunately, since the consultation is about to start, I'd better let Alfred take it from here. He would explain each drug and alert you the cautions."

"One more thing," as if reminded in hindsight Kiku craned his head around on his way to the door, eyes reminiscent. "I trust you now not to take the pills together with tea, Arthur?"

"O-of course not."

Kiku left with a wistful tug at the corner of his lips. Alfred laughed out loud as soon as he thought his mentor was out of earshot. "You _drink_ tea?"

Arthur frowned, tone silvered with danger, ready to defend. "You get a problem with that?"

"No. Just never thought people really drink that, y'know, tea." _Except some old man like Kiku apparently,_ Alfred silently suggested.

"It's much better than the liquid shite you drink."

_No coffee is- _Alfred managed to catch his words at the tip of his tongue. _Alfred the professional_, he told himself. "It's good to your airways, just don't take it with the meds."1

"I _know_." retorted Arthur irritably.

Alfred wasn't sure what had got into him. Probably it was the way Arthur shot back that had pulled the trigger. The words he tried to swallow piled up on his throat and itched to come out, which didn't help as a sudden playful thought flashed through his mind, and then it all blundered out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

"Do tell me if your urine turns tea color."

There. Alfred the so-totally-not-professional had done it again. Just why couldn't he keep it to himself? Alfred inwardly groaned and cheered at the same time, part of he knew he really, really shouldn't but _take that, brushy brows!_

"Pardon me?"

"It's a side effect of the drugs." Alfred composed himself, tried to put up by being as serious as possible. "Get to your liver and makes your urine looks like, um, black tea."

It took all Alfred's self restriction not to split his face with a shit-eating grin at the sight. Arthur's eyes were so wide that Alfred could see the green irises and his own reflection in the pupils. The man looked so taken by surprise his whole upper features switched into a scandalized shock. Too bad it didn't take long for the corner of Alfred's mouth to give him away, and Arthur finally see the insult disguised in the medical advice.

He glared at Alfred furiously, "Why you- The color of the fucking coffee!"

Alfred played innocent, "Sorry. That's what the textbooks say, tea color urine."2

"Shut it!"

"I can't. Gotta teach you about the pills."

"Then say it already."

"As you wish." Alfred took one of the pill bottles. "Arthur, rifampin. Rifampin, Arthur."

Arthur stared at him like he had just grown a second head.

Not at all discouraged, Alfred put the bottle away and whispered, covered his mouth with a hand as if he feared the pills would hear. "Mind that bastard. It turns your urine and tears and sweat orange."

"Alfred Jones!"

"Jeez Arthur calm down. I'm trying to tell you."

"Just explain, like a _normal_ doctor, would you?"

Alfred shrugged. "Fine, if you prefer that way. Don't blame me when you forget."

"Who says I will forget?"

Alfred sighed. The man just so snappish and totally not cool, couldn't stand a harmless little joke, and seemed always picking for fights. He pointed as he quickly mentioned each drug.

"Rifampin, isoniazid, prazinamide, and ethambutol. All antibiotics, four at a time to prevent drug resistant because TB is a slow sucker and an ass to kill."

He didn't stop because Arthur was the kind of people who'd better stayed zipped. "They are to be taken by mouth and will pass through your liver, so the most severe side effect will happen there. Others, I'm afraid we'll have to stand that."

"Good."

Not quite fond at the tone, Alfred frowned. _What does he mean by 'good'?_ He was no professor whom Alfred had to do presentation to. Heck, all he did was sitting there on a hospital bed, insulting _(he started it!) _the coffee he never drank and acting like some kind of jerk. Oh no not acting. _He is._ Totally.

"You left out this one."

"Who said I left it out? 'm just watching your huge eyebrows, funny."

"Get it done with and get out of my room, you git."

"Like I would stay." Alfred mumbled. "That one is vitamin, B six to be specific. Protect your nerves so isoniazid won't mess with them." _No need, they're already screwed._

Honestly, Arthur might be an easy one. For Alfred had met patients far more petulant before, and it's like everyday business now. They yelled at him, insulted him, asked for drugs that he could by no means give, and demanded him to cater to their every whim. Basically, people being assholes. Alfred considered himself as a nice guy with a kind heart meaning good, but he didn't choose to be a doc just to take their crap (stool sample no count). So now he retaliated, in his own _Alfred_ way. Still sometimes he wished they would just behave and let him _help_ them, not making his work harder when it's hard enough without them jerking him around.

"Take them at least two hours before the meal, except the vitamin one. After meal or at another time, just separate it from the other four. I would ask the nurses to schedule it and bring the drugs for you each day, so it'll be easier."

"I don't need a reminder."

"Well, sorry but that's not how it works. Everyone who is taking the meds against tuberculosis should be monitored. It's to prevent the drug resistance."

"You mean the treatment might fail."

"When you fail to take the meds everyday according to the prescription, yes."

"So that's why you said it depended."

"Yes, but like I said, there are also other factors. Look Arthur, why don't you let Kiku and I take care of that? Just rest and try to get better." Alfred said so, because he knew he should give hope, and that how much it did matter. He'd seen patients lose faith and give up way too fast just because their doctors couldn't bring themselves to care. He wasn't going to let that happen.

"What else should I know?" Arthur appeared to lose the desire to fight momentarily, as if his thoughts were being directed onto other subject or process. _Maybe it's too much information at a time,_ Alfred guessed, not that he was going to say it, _he asked for details and that's probably a good sign, means he cares, worries or perhaps . . . is afraid._

"We need to move you to another room." Alfred decided to pick up the jars of pills. "Tuberculosis is infectious. I'm afraid we'll have to put you into isolation."

He didn't miss the small twitch of Arthur's hands.

"Fine." Arthur said, eyes averted and far off, "I'm tired of this room anyway."

* * *

1: "It's good to your airways, just don't take it with the meds." Alfred didn't make it up. There is a substance called methylxanthine, existing in both tea and coffee; its derivative theophylline is a second line bronchodilator used to treat asthma.

2: "Sorry. That's what the textbooks say, tea color urine." It's called bilirubinuria, means there is bilirubin, also known as bile pigment, in the urine; thus turning it brown. Most common cause to bilirubinuria is hepatocellular injury. The medical profession loves using food as an example; I kind of hated it at first but then (Guh, what have you done to me?) things changed so watch out for more disturbing-not-funny food jokes later.


	5. Chapter 4

A standard room in Brehmer was about twenty-five feet each side and slightly broader in height. It could fit in six people at a time, and still look a little empty. Each room included a bathroom with a tub, and a window that looked down to either the hillside or the courtyard. The window was wide enough to open up for fresh air but not for throwing out a person. The curtain was a color of blue one could hardly make out after years of sun exposure, while the walls have long lost its virgin white.

The room Arthur was changed to had several differences from the standard ones. At the west end of the forth corridor, on the right to the stairway, and built for isolation, its window was sealed dead and air condition separate from the main system. The view to the hill was spared, and despite the thick double enforced glass, the room, concealed and kept under negative-pressure, received plenty of light in daytime.

For many times Alfred had seen the struggle between the patient and the room; he supposed that was something he picked up once he grew out of the role of a medical student. The mute happening of how a patient, little by little, brought parts of themselves into the sanatorium. More or less a doctor got to know a patient through their room. Family pictures, tooth brush, slippers, flowers and letters and cards from their beloved visitors. If he truly paid heed, they were all there, right under his nose.

The night had started off as usual. Patient needed dressing change, urethra catheter fell off, patient couldn't sleep, and someone's neighbor had a fever. Alfred had sent twenty urine and blood samples to the laboratory. _Not even on my top ten,_ he thought. The corridor after nightfall felt like another world all over. By the time all duty was fulfilled, it was nearly two o'clock, and Alfred could really use some respite.

So at first he didn't hear his pager raging, not until he was few paces away from the doctors' lounge. "Another round?" he looked at the small device with tired eyes, "You just never take no as an answer do you, babe?"

He read the number and his mind shot up awake. Four B. That's Arthur's room.

A lot of times Alfred came across the books patients read, together with the drawings their still young children sent along, or the laughter and tears they shared as they were bedridden. But it wasn't the most seen that shook him.

Forth floor was deadly quiet. Alfred felt like a trespasser. Isolation rooms kept most sounds and voices confined, he knew that, yet he couldn't help but fear he didn't make it, which was pretty much how he felt every time he got to the spot without seeing a note or a nurse. He stood at the door leading into Room Four B, knowing that there would be a second door after it, and that Arthur was supposed to be sound asleep. Again Alfred looked hastily around for nurses. _Natta. Guess I'll have to find out myself._

Regardless of his general immunity to those kinds of things, Alfred remembered how, under his watch, the room reshaped and reformed, sometimes much unlike their occupants, to become a place less colorless and more alive. It clung to him like the smell of disinfectant. He couldn't recall the last time he came to the forth floor. Alfred tried to focus as he slid open one door; then another.

And there Arthur was, in bed, not sleeping but sitting wide awake, knees drawn to his chest and bandage around his forehead.

"I told her not to page you." Arthur grouched as he took in the intruder. "And you should wear a mask."

Not at all in the mood, Alfred demanded without replying, "What happened?" Then he saw a smear on Arthur's once white mask. Blood. "Arthur, tell me what happened."

"I slipped," Arthur let go of his knees, tucking them safe under the cover, "In the bathroom. Nothing big, really."

Alfred strode to said bathroom; blood still there shed red on the white tiles. _Minor injury._ He blew out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He went back, asked slowly and meant it, "You sure about that?"

"I'm fine."

A small spot of crimson had wormed its way out through the gauze. Alfred found himself staring at it, _was it just me or did it really grow bigger?_ "So where did the nurse go? I got here but no show."

"She finished tending and went off. I thought she was going for you." Arthur brushed the wrinkles out of the sheet. "I told her not to page you over this. It's late."

"Why were you up then, if it's late?"

"I can go to the loo, can't I?"

"That blood is nowhere near the toilet."

A silent staring exchange. Alfred closed it up asking, "You couldn't sleep, right?"

There was really no hiding in that. Something was off and Alfred knew in his guts. He might be a junior, but he's still a doctor. "Why can't you sleep?"

The mask puffed up and went flat again, fitting against Arthur's nose tip. "Good question."

"Arthur," said Alfred who was at the right moment of pulling double shift. "Is there anything you haven't told me?"

Okay here again they hit the brick wall named _I-am-not-talking-no_. Alfred sighed, "Look, I'mma gonna walk to that door, put my hand on the handle and y'll realize it's a big mistake you didn't tell me the truth and you'll call me back. But I've maxed out on overtime, so can we cut the crap?"

"Bloody hell," Arthur let out a shuddering breath, "my head hurts."

Alfred managed to suppress the temptation of eye-rolling. "You bumped your head, of course it hurts."

"No I mean- It's not- I know how it's like but it's not that."

"Well how 'sit like?"

"Worse."

"Wait it hurts _now?_" Alfred only clued in when he saw Arthur's face whiten. _Fuck._ "How? Why didn't you tell me?"

Arthur managed to shoot Alfred a look. Alfred tested his forehead, but his own hand was too hot and sweaty to feel. The pain written in those green eyes fluttered them off, and the words came out chipped from those gritted yet covered teeth. "Blasted migraine."

Alfred wasn't so sure. Grabbing both of Arthur's hands, he turned them palms up and he knew, despite those clenching fingers in the way, that it wasn't a slip. There were clear and strict standards to migraine diagnosis; it did not include fever or inability to defend oneself the last time Alfred had checked. "Why wasn't this on the history?"

"I have, absolutely no idea." The sentence broke and Arthur drew his hands back to grasp a fistful of sheet he had just flattened moments ago. "Just leave me alone and I'll be fine."

Alfred knew better than keep asking now. Arthur said it was migraine, and from the way he dealt with it, Alfred rendered it safe to assume it'd happened before. He watched Arthur closely. He ought not to do anything that would mask the signs; still he wondered if it was really that big a deal to rid the pain. Then he thought, _screw the fucking signs I'm doing it,_ and pressed out a call.

"What are you doing?" hissed Arthur.

The nurse took longer than Alfred had thought, "I need 75 milligrams Voltaren, IM." The thing he didn't like about the isolation room was that there's no tray in it, and that the cart and nurses were all unwilling to come in.

"Dr Jones where is your mask?"

"I kinda forget, mind bringing it with you?"

The nurse left.

"Why did you do that?" Arthur questioned in a quiet voice.

Alfred could see the tension in those white knuckles. Arthur, who shouldn't be talking, spoke, "I can handle the pain just fine. And you have to call her."

"And you don't have to handle it when you get your shot." Alfred frowned, "You won't happen to get something against painkiller, will you?"

Arthur didn't utter a word since then, not even after the nurse left again and the injection should already take effect.

"Any better?" Alfred said with a mask spinning around his forefinger, somehow he doubted Arthur would hear him if he put it on. "If you are tired, I can come around in the morning, that is," he glanced to his watch, "about four hours later and ask you then."

Arthur rolled over from where Alfred stood.

On the way back to doctors' lounge on the second floor, Alfred found his exhausted mind swirling about Arthur's silence. He stopped his thought before it drifted. A few hour sleeps and he would be in his top shape. He set his pager and glasses on the coffee table, shrugged off his white coat, and then jumped straight onto the sofa, didn't even bother wriggling out of the shoes.

The next thing he knew, was that something's shaking his shoulder. _Dr Jones._ Annoying dreams, go away. _Dr Jones, wake up!_ More shaking. The voice broke off. _The meeting . . . started . . . five . . . _

"Dr Jones!" A sudden jolt, coming with a shout too loud against his ear, snapped him out off drowsiness, "The morning meeting started five minutes ago!"

"I'm up. I'm up." Alfred forced his eyes open as his hand clumsily explored the coffee table in search for his glasses, which was shoved right onto his face, nearly poked his eyes in the process. "The meeting what?"

"It started five minutes ago and Dr Honda said you didn't answer his page." The nurse blabbered on, "Don't you have a cell phone or an alarm? Where's your pager? All the doctors are already there, so he sent me to look for you and- ah, here it is," she picked up the pager at the other end of the room, "How did it end up here? Anyway, they are all waiting for you to do presentation and Dr Braginski said if you didn't show up soon enough-"

"I get it, I get it." Alfred grabbed the pager; he had finished putting on his not-so-shining armor of a white coat, and whatever that Braginski had in store for him, he said _bring it on you section-staring tissue-slicing drunk wretch-_

It happened like this: a few days after he took his new position at Brehmer, Alfred was turned to for his opinion on a case, which he had been—and still was now—sure that the patient had multiple myeloma. Back pain, anemia, and elevated calcium in blood; even the serum electrophoresis came back with a prominent peak in the gamma zone, he meant, how obvious was that? So Alfred, the one and only junior, did a bone marrow biopsy and all Ivan Braginski the chief pathologist told him was "Not enough plasma cells under high power field." And the diagnosis hung.

The patient hopped to another hospital and the diagnosis was settled there. But by then, time had been wasted.

Before that, Alfred was cool with Braginski not liking him or judging him or whatnot; just don't let it get into their work and it's all fine by him. But after that, it was full range and mutual. Ivan saw Alfred as an overconfident upstart who had neither manners nor respect, and thus deserved so much a lesson. While there's nothing Alfred hated more than figuring out an answer, yet being deprived the right to reply solely because of his age.

All this lead to no surprise at the end of Alfred's rushed presentation, when most other doctors filed out to take care of their own duty. Ivan approached with upward twists on both corners of his mouth, "I heard you diagnosed tuberculosis based on the tuberculin test, _alone?_"

Alfred put his smile on. If Braginski had to start on that, he was well prepared. "Well, maybe. And oh I forgot there was chest X-ray. And acid-fast. And culture."

"Chest X ray only suspected tuberculosis. There are other bacteria that are positive in acid-fast. And the culture you said," Ivan paused to emphasize, "hasn't even grown yet, now has it?"

"Yeah right, why don't we wait _patiently_ until it grows enough _for you_? That's what, eight weeks? And then yeah, I'm positive we can be both one hundred percent sure then. Too bad I already know."

"Please, both of you stop." Kiku, who also hadn't left the room, cut in while his tone stayed unwaveringly neutral. "Alfred, Dr Braginski was just reminding you that those tests had their own limits, and there could be a false positive once in a while."

Alfred opened his mouth but Kiku eyed him to close it. Then he turned to the pathologist, and added, "Ivan, I'm certain that it was tuberculosis, considering all the aspects and means Alfred took. The patient really couldn't afford waiting."

"But it's not that urgent," Ivan disagreed, "The patient _walked_ himself here. Jones only got it on a hunch."

"Hey!" Alfred wasn't going to take that, "I proved it,_ scientifically!_"

"No you _didn't_," Ivan shouted back and before Kiku could stop them this time, he said with a teeth-baring smile, "You were _looking_ for it! And you got lucky. You won't always get lucky."

Kiku said something, but it was muffled by several knocks on the door. A nurse entered and glanced nervously at the three of them, especially Ivan and Alfred, who were barely an inch away from each other's face and both had cold rage dancing in their eyes. "Um, I'm sorry to interrupt, doctors, but the morning round, the patients . . ."

Kiku sighed, "Well, Alfred I supposed you should go now."

"And the clinic, Dr Honda." The nurse quickly added.

Kiku nodded and turned to Alfred, "It would be nice to keep me posted, Alfred. If you need me, you know where to find me." He didn't move from the spot. Alfred guessed he should be the one first to go, since Kiku was too prudent to leave him and Braginski alone in the same room.

One last stare and Alfred said on his way out, with a smile that never went to his eyes, "Good day, _Braginski._"

"Same to you, _junior._"

Alfred closed the door behind him. The nurse, leaving with him, let go a sigh, "Why are you always arguing?"

"He started it."

"What's the point at fighting? I mean, he can't get you fired. Who's going to do all the rounds if he did?"

Alfred laughed, "Yeah I supposed. Thanks. I'll use that as leverage next time."

He looked out through the corridor windows and the fight, at least to the nurse that was, flew out of the window, and left not a shadow under the sun. It was a nice day, clear sky and Alfred could see the trees swaying in the tender breeze. A wonderful morning, a promising start, and Alfred made a memo to self about eating lunch outside on the lawn.

The morning round, basically, was the same as what he did at night; rinse and repeat and there it was. What differed was the mood. Alfred like afternoon shift the best, morning round the next and enjoyed the evenings when patients were fed, tame, and content. He figured if you had to do that everyday, it'd be easier when you found something you liked in it. After spending five days a week under the fluorescent light, every ray of sunshine felt like bliss to him, and he somehow knew it did the same to the patients.

When he got to forth floor, the route was almost completed and the nurse held Alfred before he entered the isolation room.

"He's having breakfast. Wait until the tray comes out." she said, "and don't forget your mask this time."

Alfred put on the mask reluctantly. He knew it's for the best, but the mask made his breath go upwards and fog his glasses. A doctor with fogged glasses? That's so ridiculous and not professional at all.

Maybe he should get his glasses fog-proof.

"He didn't eat much, huh?" Alfred said when the tray finally came out.

"You know how it works here, Dr Jones," said the nurse pushing the cart away, "It's good that he can still eat."

She left without a second glance and finally Alfred went in, "Good morning Arthur, are you ready to-" He was met with a scowl as predicted, and Alfred did finish his conversation starter, just not as planned, "they got polka dot gown? How come I never saw it before?"

Arthur seemed not readier to talk than he was hours ago, "You came all the way to comment on the sense of clothes I have nothing to do with or what?"

"I'm just surprised. You don't wanna talk about the clothes, fine then. We'll talk about your headache. When did it first start?"

At first Alfred thought Arthur would fall silent, or cover up by searching for answers that were almost always left unsaid. But Arthur replied, businesslike, "About a month ago. I was working on my graduate papers and didn't get much sleep. I thought-" He came to an abrupt stop.

"You thought?" Alfred tried.

"It doesn't matter now."

"Hey," Alfred waited until Arthur looked him in the eyes; then said, "If there is something you want to tell me, you should. Whatever it is."

Arthur hesitated, but decided to go on, "I thought it's just, nothing. And everything would be fine again if I had finished my papers and got rest but then," another pause, "the cough."

"So the cough started after the headache?"

"I mean it got worse. I was . . . having a cold before it all started."

Alfred just wrote it down on the clipboard. He wanted to ask Arthur what took him so long, but he didn't want it to come across like guilt tripping. Not everyone could afford seeing a doctor whenever they felt ill, and Arthur was at last trying to talk today; Alfred didn't want to risk that.

"Can you describe what it's like? The headache?"

"It happened really quick and sudden," the sentence broke off but Alfred knew Arthur was thinking, remembering, "it's . . . sharp."

"Was it throbbing pain?"

"No it's more like . . . tearing."

"How often did it happen?"

"It's not that often as it used to be. It only happened once after I got here."

"Did you have a fever when it first happened?"

"Could be. I wasn't feeling well then, had to ask my professor to put back the deadline. I guess it doesn't matter now."

The bitterness behind that made Alfred wonder out aloud, "Why is that? You can still hand it out when you get better and have it done, right?"

Arthur shook off Alfred's wishful thinking, "He already found someone else to be his assistant. And if I were him, I wouldn't hire someone that's hospitalised."

"This is not permanent," Alfred didn't know what he was saying and why, but he said it anyway; "You'll get well. And out. And you'll finish that paper you'd worked so hard on so you can shove it on his face."

Something flashed through Arthur's eyes. It was gone in an instant, but Alfred was damn sure he saw it, and the smirk followed after, "I never said I wouldn't." said Arthur.

"Alright then. Let me know if you're having it again, okay?"

"I won't."

"Erm, I mean the headache?" Alfred said, confused.

"Oh. That." Arthur stuttered a little, "I'll keep it in mind."

Then Alfred noticed. The personal belongings in the room. It's not much but he could already see . . . things, in it.

"So, I guess you unpacked?" landing his gaze on the several books on the bedside table, Alfred asked in a casual way.

Arthur followed his eyes, and nodded, "I have plenty of time."

"Don't tell me you packed your whole stash here," Alfred joked, and wanted a little to take it back as Arthur turned away and said nothing. "I thought there would be more if that's the case," he added with a laugh.

"It's all here. I sold those I couldn't bring with me."

Arthur's voice was too quiet. Alfred almost missed it. "Why?" he asked with a frown, "I mean you could have left it behind if you couldn't bring it."

"Who knows how long I'll be stuck here," said Arthur, "and that French bastard is the last person with whom I'll entrust my property."

So he did know, thought Alfred. He read it on a journal that sometimes patients knew, _felt,_ what was happening on them, although most of the time they mistook it, brushed it off, or ignored it completely.

"You know, Arthur, since you're here, things will only get better."

Arthur raised an eyebrow, "Oh. What makes you so sure? Wait," he saw the expression on Alfred's face, "don't answer that."

Alfred grinned, "And there is another thing. Did anyone explain the visiting hours and rules to you?"

"No, but you can save the bother."

"Why is that?"

"I don't have a family."

"No way. Everyone has a family."

"Even so, I don't want them here."

"You don't want- seriously? There are people here waiting desperately for their family's next visit and you just said-" Alfred cut himself off, "No one knows you're here, right? Friends? Relatives?"

Arthur looked as if he was smiling, "No one will come even if you, being a big mouth, go and tell them."

"I won't. And I'm not a big mouth," defended Alfred, "but are you sure you don't want to, at least try to call them?"

Arthur shook, "I'll appreciate you not to poke your nose into this." And he quickly added, softer this time, "You don't know what they're like, so thanks. But no."

"Okay," that was Alfred's only response. What else could he say? It wasn't part of his job to get into some family affairs anyway. Arthur just saved him the trouble. And yet.

"Dr Jones?" A nurse had come in, she paid Alfred a good look with the unsaid but both known _why-are-you-still-here_ undertone.

"Gotta keep moving," said Alfred, "see you, Arthur."

He fled the room before the nurse could say anything else.

It was indeed a nice day. Almost September and Alfred couldn't spot a single cloud in the azure sky. Perhaps good weather encouraged everything that's fine, talking included, he thought. A part of him wanted to believe that it was because he seemed more reliable than yesterday.

Alfred decided he was definitely going to eat his lunch on the lawn. And in the shade of course.

* * *

I'm still alive, and writing. Sadly my summer only began when August came; anyway, be prepared since the chapters may get longer from now on. And I'm so happy you saw this OP! This fill is also on the Kink Meme, so you can reply where you feel comfortable. I love you so much for requesting this! And the fact that there are people reading this make me ahsdklas;k happy!


	6. Chapter 5

The city was quite the same to Alfred's latest memory. Big, fast and loud. Everything was constantly on the move. After spending almost a hundred hours every week at Brehmer, Alfred was surprised that he could still blend in so easily, without any effort, kind of. (No one saw he jolted when he heard the screeching sound of horn and brake first time in the night.) Usually he stayed at the apartment he rented once a month, playing video games, doing weight training or watching TV with a family size ice cream bucket tucked in his arm. When he left the apartment, it's mostly for restocking.

Tonight was different.

Breathing in the late September air, he looked at the building in front of him then at the address he scrabbled on a piece of crumbled paper, which was the first thing he could find to write on when Gilbert had called to tell him to get his ass out of the house. "Why did you fucking go missing all the time? If you aren't going to turn on your goddamn cell once in a while then why the fuck did you buy it?" Alfred had long since been used to Gilbert's foul mouth and quick temper; therefore he waited until he finished, "Haul your fat ass up. We're going for a drink."

He and Gilbert were classmates back when they were silly billy college students. Gilbert was an albino and there hadn't been a time people stopped wondering how on earth he'd got into medical school. Gilbert was as smart as he was boastful, as talented as he was rebellious. The fact he had red eyes and white hair only made him more noticeable, which wasn't necessarily a good thing. Most of his classmates considered it a miracle that Gilbert Beilschmidt didn't get expelled, but Alfred knew Gilbert better than to think that way. The guy was much more careful than he let on.

_That's why you two can get along. Birds of a feather. _One of their classmates had said.

Alfred would rather think it was because they were both awesome.

"About time!" Gilbert, whose hair was as white as the last time Alfred had seen it, raised his glass when he saw Alfred came through the door. He was sitting at the bar table and there were already a couple of empty glasses beside him.

"I could've been here ten minutes ago, if you hadn't given me a crappy address," said Alfred as he took the seat.

"Ha! Trying to blame your inability to read on me," Gilbert gulped down the drink he was holding, "Seriously I thought you were dead. No one heard about you."

"I'm working at Brehmer." Alfred said after ordering a pint of beer.

"You've gotta be kidding me!" Gilbert put the empty glass down, "Brehmer? Where the hell is that? No wonder no one heard about you."

"It's not as bad as you think."

"I though you got and get yourself married."

Alfred laughed, "What?"

"You know, trying to get over the Get Dumped by Your Chick thing."

"Yeah, right. Like you're any better. If you get a girlfriend, we both know you won't be here drinking with me."

Gilbert grimaced, "'m job's more awesome than yours anyway."

"Awesome how?"

"Neurosurgery." he said with a puffed chest and a smug bright on his face.

"So you picked your specialty."

"You haven't?" Gilbert frowned.

"Abe told me to slow down."

"And you did? I know you're an idiot but I never thought you're _that_ _much_ of an idiot."

"I'm sure he had good reasons asking me so."

Gilbert shook as if he couldn't believe, "He just wants you to be like all those stubborn boring old men in medical profession."

"He wants me to be reliable." Alfred couldn't help but sound a bit defensive. He liked Abe. And he knew he would come out learning things from Brehmer. He just wasn't sure what it would be.

"You can look young _and_ still be reliable."

The bartender came with Alfred's beer. And the subject was dropped since Gilbert made a face saying, "Are you sure you're going to drink that?"

"What? You mean the beer?"

"I wouldn't call it beer."

Alfred shrugged and drank. Gilbert was weird when it came to beer or wurst. (The only reason Alfred knew the word wurst was because Gilbert had been frigging furious the last time he called it sausage. And they had been done their fights on beer that didn't end well every single time.)

"So how's your work?" Alfred ended up asking, since he didn't need Gilbert keep telling him how much of an idiot he was.

"Can't complain. Fritz taught me a lot," he smeared the condensed ring of water with his thumb, "I'm doing most of the operations now."

"Oh." Alfred felt his heart sink. He knew he should be happy about Gilbert's current state but he felt . . . well, left out. And the sense of neglect of duty resurfaced. How could he have not yet decided his specialty? What was he doing when everyone was making progress and learning new things and moving on?

"At least you got your own case at the place, Brehmer, right?" asked Gilbert.

"Um, yeah. At least I got mine." Alfred answered as he quickly drained down his beer.

Kiku had told him when the weekend came and Alfred was about to leave Brehmer for two days off. He still had to answer any call during the weekend, but Kiku had insisted that he should go home for once. "You deserve some rest Alfred," he said, "for Arthur has decided that you'd be his attendant from now on. I think it'd be the best if I give you some time to prepare." Alfred was speechless. One thing about Kiku was that whatever the news was he could always say it as if it was the latest weather broadcast. And Alfred hadn't seen it coming this time as well. He tried asking why but Kiku just smiled in his conservative way and told him to speak to Arthur personally. "He must think you're dependable."

Alfred paid Arthur a visit on his way out. Okay, it might not have been entirely on the route but he did it anyway; mostly because he just somehow couldn't believe it and needed to hear it from Arthur. He sneaked into forth floor wearing his off-work clothes. He would be leaving soon; all he wanted was to hear it himself. The bed was empty when he entered; the only sound in the room was a fit of anguished coughs coming from the closed door to the small bathroom.

If Alfred hadn't known better, he'd have said Arthur was trying to cough his heart out.

"Arthur?" he knocked on the bathroom door, "Arthur are you okay?" He was met with silence.

Then the water started running inside the bathroom.

Arthur's voice came muffled through the door and running water, "I'm fine. What are you doing here? Kiku told me you're having days off."

"Yeah I am. But gotta make sure you're alright before I leave, if you, um, see what I mean," Alfred rushed off his sentence and cleared his throat as he recalled why he was here, "Arthur is it true that you chose me to be your attendant?"

It took several long seconds before Arthur's voice came through, rather mindful and doubtful this time, "I only did so because Kiku had suggested it—if you don't want to be my attendant that's fine and you could've just—"

"Nonono that's not what I mean," Alfred didn't know why he started stuttering, but somehow he felt so nervous, and _excited_, "I'm glad and, could you like, tell me why?"

Nothing but the sound of water running. Alfred thought he might hear something along the lines of _I knew I'd regret this_.

"If you come here just to flaunt I swear-"

But Alfred would never know what Arthur had in mind since he fell silent again. And Alfred suddenly feared that he might have drown in the tub, "Arthur you still there?" He tried the knob several times. It's locked, "Arthur you alive?" Alfred started banging the door.

"Of course I'm alive! Stop that!" came Arthur's somehow panicking voice. It seemed that the water was turned off because Alfred heard dripping and a sigh.

"You're not going to leave me alone until I tell you why, are you?"

Alfred grinned, "No. You're learning fast."

Splash. And something like _sod_. "Fine. I'll tell you, just once. Then you'll leave. I don't care if you get it with your decorative ears."

It wasn't until Gilbert gave him a strange look did Alfred notice he was grinning like a fool.

"Seriously, you sure you don't need to have your head checked?" said Gilbert, "You look so far up in it."

Alfred quickly covered up his smile drinking, "Sorry, kinda lost it."

"Huh." Gilbert looked dubious; then a sly smirk spread on his face, "You got a new chick aren't you?"

Alfred nearly spilt his beer, "What- No! It's- I just got my own first case."

"Got you first case made you smile like that? _Yeah right._"

"It's true!"

"Then you're screwed." Said Gilbert, not too much concerned at all, "I never saw someone would split his face grinning just because he got a case."

"Not a case; it's my first. Try telling me you didn't feel excited when you got yours."

Gilbert laughed, which sounded more like a bark, "First, second, whatever. Aren't any different."

"Of course they are different. They're people. No two people are the same."

"People fuck up. What's why they come to us. To get fixed so they can fuck their lives up again."

Alfred disagreed, there's more than that. He got to know people, about their lives, their best and worst days and so many other things that made Alfred glad he had chosen to be a doctor; he actually _participated_ in other people's lives.

Gilbert just went on, "We treat them so we don't have to see them again."

"Not true."

"True to me, kiddo. I'm a surgeon. I cut people open to fix whatever's wrong in them. The only time I need them is to get the consent. Other than that, I don't give a rat's ass. Who they are, where they're from, how many kids they have; none of those matters. They all look the same when I get inside their skull. The faster I finish, the sooner they get discharged."

"That's not how physicians work."

"Physicians, ha! What's the point of practicing medicine for years and seeing the same bulk of patients, treating the same kinds of diseases all the way? That sucks."

"We get to know people. There's nothing better than that."

"Fast, fierce, no strings attached. Now_ that's_ better."

"Whatever you say." Arguing was not what Alfred had come here for. And he knew no matter what he said, Gilbert would no doubt find a way to outtalk him. But that did not mean Alfred should be converted. He liked his current work style and had no intent to change it. They trusted him; even Arthur began to trust him, and Alfred wouldn't change that for the world.

"God that chick's so hot. Jeans that tight I can read her lips." Alfred knew it's never a good sign whenever Gilbert started to slur and there were women involved. Still he listened and frowned, _what do jeans have to do with—_oh. Alfred felt his face warmed up and it's most definitely not because of the alcohol he had. Now he only wished no one could tell the difference in dim light.

As Gilbert began to buy drink for said girl, Alfred stared into his third, or forth, glass of beer. His mind strayed. He might not want to live like Gilbert, but Alfred saw the man's point and understood why he chose a life like that. They'd been friends for a long time; they got along, didn't drift apart because they're different and yet had lots in common. And Alfred knew, deep down there's a part of him just like Gilbert, who'd give up anything just to feel the thrill, to live and _wallow_ in it.

But life was short.

And after seeing people, families, lives filled with regret and remorse, growing old and falling sick and apart and _dying_, he doubted if he could just fling himself, like what Gilbert was doing, dauntlessly and recklessly. Sure, he could still have fun, but now he felt it's not just, _that_, and there was supposed to be, and must be more.

He wondered if this was what Abe had been trying to tell him.

Back at Brehmer, facing the closed and unfaltering bathroom door, Alfred had caught Arthur's words. They're almost whispers, like a secret.

Someone blocked the light. Alfred looked up to a suggestive smile, "Mind if I sit here?" asked a woman. Looked like Gilbert had got his girl tonight, Alfred took in the empty seat, sighed in his mind and shook.

He left for home not long after that, and dropped by to buy the week's grocery. Bagel, milk, bacon, spaghetti, potatoes, coffee beans and ice cream. The lady that asked to sit beside him wasn't too keen on him leaving, but Alfred hadn't been in the mood. Though he didn't have an exact plan for this weekend, he had a vague idea concerning books and journals; he'd like to get started tomorrow after his first cup of coffee, and it wouldn't be wise if he had woken up with a hangover.

Some time around midnight, Gilbert had called, this time full of foul language as well, asking where the fuck did Alfred go. It seemed that Gilbert actually did not go for the girl but to the restroom and had been staying a little too long in it for Alfred to get misled and left. "I know there's something off about you tonight. Try get over it yourself," he said and Alfred laughed because there's nothing wrong with him and Gilbert was just pissed off since he had left early.

"Everything's good, Gilbo. Just had some work to do tomorrow."

"You're having days _off_, dude! What are you, some workaholic? Fine, I'll have fun myself. The night's still young." He hung up.

Alfred woke up near noon next day. Never felt so refreshed in a long time. Kiku was right, he did deserve some days off, Alfred thought as he picked up his glasses. He closed his eyes before his put them on, _everything will be great today,_ and blinked to a clearer vision and an off duty Saturday.

He dug out some of his textbooks, all opened up to the page of Infectious Diseases as he had his brunch, five pieces of bacon and a squabbled egg, plus a bagel and a cup of coffee. Alfred wanted to make a calendar for Arthur. Because, well, he supposed Arthur would like to know what day it was and when he would be able to get discharged, and this way, he could do both while at the same time Alfred could show him what they were going to do during the treatment.

Sputum test monthly. First two months four drugs at a time, and if the sputum rendered negative at the end of then, they'll switch to two drugs at a time for following four months. Alfred was midway through December when the phone rang.

It was his brother Matthew.

"For god's sake, Al," he said, "Can't you at least call home once in a while? Or check your answering machine, eh? So Mom doesn't have to ask me to call you?"

"Oh. Um, I was kinda busy, y'know, Matt." replied Alfred, "I'll remember from now on."

"You'd better. Mom said she wants to see you at Thanksgiving."

"Thanksgiving? It's _September_ now, Matt! That's two months later."

"I'm telling you now so you can arrange your day offs. And I know you are _allowed_ to have day offs. So be there, okay?"

"I don't know, Matt. I'll speak to Kiku. But I can't promise."

Matthew sighed at the other end of line, "Look, Al, I know you're saving lives and it's great. But Mom needs you to be there. I can stay with her from time to time, but I'm not you. And she misses you."

"I know, Matt. Um, is-" Alfred swallowed, "is she okay?"

"She is fine. But that doesn't mean you can't go to see her."

"Yeah, I know. How are things at graduate school?"

"Good. I'm in group therapy now."

Alfred smiled, "you mean you're the one holding the sessions."

"Yeah, just want to see if you still remember what your brother's doing."

"How could I forget, Matt? It's you, the world's greatest psychiatrist."

"Shut up. I've not even graduated yet."

"No, really. It's great that you're doing awesome."

"Keep saying that you'll still have to come home for Thanksgiving."

"I know. I promise I'll try, okay?"

"Take care yourself, Alfred."

"I know."

"And _call_ home."

"I will."

Then Matthew hung up. And Alfred stared at his telephone for a while. Then he settled on calling home later, after he finished the schedule for Arthur.

They grew up in a small town, he and Matthew. They used to do everything together, until things happened and Alfred, two years older than his brother, moved out for college. And only now did it occur to him that they both had really grown up, and that he indeed hadn't gone home for a long time. It was not entirely true to say that Alfred had forgot and only remembered now, because he always did, but more than often there were things much more urgent than he going home, so the thought was forced to stay in the dark.

Alfred wasn't going to lie; he did want to go home. But two days (now only one and a half) were too tight for driving there and back. And he would have to bring all his books with him.

The calendar was almost done, and according to it, Arthur would be leaving Brehmer the time around next February, or January if all went fine.

Alfred hoped the man had enough books to read for months to come.

He tried imagining Arthur's reaction when he showed it to him. He stopped as he saw his reflection on the surface of coffee machine.

Alfred sighed, "Hate to say it but Gilbert seemed right I looked so far up in my-"

He saw his eyes widened in the reflection, but Alfred wasn't looking. He dashed back to the textbooks, nearly bumped his knee in the way, yet he couldn't care less. He browsed through page after page; almost tore the thin paper in the haste.

Then finally he found it.

His hands were shaking when he called Kiku.

"Kiku I know what's wrong!" Too excited, Alfred didn't even wait for his director to speak, "I figured it out! It's not- He didn't have a migraine! It's—"

"Alfred, please slow down. I can barely keep up with you."

"It's the same diagnosis! But this time not in his lung, but his head! It's meningitis."

It took a couple seconds before Kiku replied, "Ah, I see. That makes sense."

"And we already fixed it!"

"Yes, Alfred, if that's the case we did."

"It _is_ the case."

"But we can't prove it, Alfred. The drugs we gave Arthur were meant to rid him of the bacteria, and by so the chance we find them in his spinal fluid is low. I won't recommend doing the lumbar puncture right now, considering that and the risk."

"...so that's it? We'll never know?" Alfred thought in hindsight that maybe he wasn't supposed to kick a fuss figuring it out. Because it's _meningitis_, "Um, I guess you're right. We can't put him through that."

"It's okay, Alfred. You did great." Kiku said; his voice kind. "You figured it out, and I believe it is the answer. Sometimes though it's unable to prove, it's enough like this."

"Really?" Alfred asked, and hated sounding so uncertain.

"Yes. I know it might not be good enough, but that's how medicine works."

"So we'll only find out when we're wrong?"

"I'm afraid so."

The conversation ended after Kiku informed Alfred there wasn't anything happening at Brehmer so far that required his help. "Have a nice weekend, Alfred." He said before he hung up, leaving Alfred with a cup of lukewarm coffee, and to an empty room bathed in afternoon light.

Alfred decided to dial home.

* * *

I finally wrote the conversation between Al and Gil. It must mean something, considering how long I've been wanting to do that. And the one with Matt as well. There will be more to come about the disease. Thank you for reading! Your comments mean a lot to me, and for the OP I hope you don't mind the story getting, well, too long...


	7. Chapter 6

Sorry for the uber-lateness. We're working toward the end, slowly but surely. It'll be about ten to twelve parts in total, if I count it right. Again, really sorry for the wait.

* * *

Arthur's record put up pages after he came to Brehmer. At first, there was nothing more than several routine checkups and a chest film. Everything was well documented going back to the admission note. Alfred had got the result of the PCR long before the sputum culture came out; body temperature and other vital signs were taken thrice a day. All these filed away under the name of Arthur Kirkland.

Alfred stared at the history he'd gone through so many times. A patch of morning ray made his writing glint.

"Don't you have somewhere else to go?" He was wearing that frown again. One would think that after two months and a week in isolation, Arthur would appreciate having any kind of company. But the truth was, even a month after he'd been out of quarantine, Arthur enjoyed company no more than he enjoyed coffee.

"The doctors' lounge is not safe now, and I've done my morning round," answered Alfred, "I'm only doing the paper work here, so don't mind me."

"Actually, I do," a scowl, and there was something incredibly Arthur in it, "Go do your work somewhere else. I'm sure you can do it at the nurses station."

"I can't work there."

"I don't care."

"Don't be like that. I promise I won't mess with your books. See?" Alfred pushed the chair he was sitting on away from the bedside table, where a pile of long due health record folders sat next to the wore out hardcovers. He held his hands up, "I'm not touching them."

"You still can't put those things here."

Alfred sighed. "Alright, how about this?" and roughly moved the pile of folders to the ground, " They are not on your table, but on _hospital_ property."

One of the good things about standard rooms was that, contrary to the isolation ones, the nurses wouldn't mind so much if Alfred stayed there for a bit longer. However, judging from the downward turns on the corners of Arthur's mouth, Alfred knew it was only a matter of time before Arthur actually threw him out. But he really didn't have a choice! Well...maybe not exactly, since there were always some empty rooms in the sanatorium ground, but Alfred just...didn't want to be there, at least not today.

He tried to focus on the medical charts. He was already far beyond due date and he'd better hand them in before it came to bite him in the ass.

Alfred was almost half way through one record when he heard Arthur cough.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." His voice rasped. Arthur cleared his throat, "If you're going to ask the same question every other minute, I suggest you leave. It's damn annoying."

"I'm a doctor. I care."

"Try again when you finish all that," he nodded to the pile of folders, "It'd be much more convincing."

"Yeah...it's not like I'm the only junior here."

"The only junior with illegible handwriting."

Alfred looked up from the history.

"Your fault leaving it open," Arthur scoffed, eyeing one of the records that lay on top of a pile of others.

"Hey!" Alfred rushed to put that folder away, "I didn't touch your books and this is how you return the favor? Not fair."

"There's no _favour_. Be grateful I didn't kick your sorry arse out of my room by now."

"Mutual respect, okay? And it's not my fault they can't read cursive."

Arthur snorted, "Cursive, are you sure? Because to me it looks like scratching, _at most_."

It was rather interesting at first, when Arthur had been freshly out of quarantine. He wasn't too keen on leaving his mask then, but Alfred had assured him that he was clean, and that he would surely regret it if he kept it on. "Take it off," Alfred had said, "unless you'd rather them remain to be my impression of you the rest of your life," he pointed to those eyebrows, and earned himself an intimidating glare.

Arthur did remove the mask, though rather reluctantly.

Alfred had grinned at the first sight of Arthur's uncovered face, "I knew there would be some compensation."

He barely dodged a softcover.

"Next time it'll be a hardback," warned Arthur, "and I'd make sure it breaks the bloody nose of yours."

"Naw, you won't. You just proved it," Alfred picked up the paperback, dusted it, and handed it back to his patient, "I bet this is the only one you'll throw."

"We'll see. _We'll see_"

Right at that moment, there was something in the way Arthur glowered. It was new to him. Alfred had been used to decoding looks basing solely on the upper half of Arthur's face; now the mask was gone. He watched Arthur scowl, and it seemed complete.

But now, surrounded by a pile of unfinished file folders, being insulted on his perfectly readable handwriting, and trapped inside a room with Arthur, who was grumpy as always, Alfred decided it's time to stop being nice.

"Nice try, but I'm not going away." If that had been Arthur's plan, then he was so, so wrong. Alfred would damn camp here if he pleased. "Look, Arthur, you can either pretend I'm not here, or you go on distracting me from doing my work, and you'll _still _be stuck with me. Your choice."

"Oh I have a choice. How brilliant," Arthur groused, and pulled out a book under a small mountain of others with two unnecessarily forceful tugs.

Alfred ignored him by copying some old memos onto a medical record. When he paused in the middle of yet a sentence, trying to figure out _what on earth does that scribbling mean_ at a umpteenth time, it hit him that despite never saying it out loud, it's kind of hard indeed, sometimes even for him to read his own writing. But he made out its meanings anyway. Hot shit like him could never be put off by something so meager like cursive. He finished one record and bent down to pick up another.

Three records after he found the room oddly quiet and he looked up. For a split second he couldn't see. The light in October morning wasn't as fierce as it was in summer, but blinding nevertheless. Alfred squinted, and wondered how Arthur could possibly read in this kind of overexposure.

But Arthur wasn't reading, and Alfred knew because instead of tracing lines, Arthur's eyes stayed fixed at a blank spot.

"It's autumn already," Alfred said pointing to the window. The mountains were on fire, vivid and alive under the autumn sun. He felt it's his duty making sure Arthur didn't miss out, "Nice view, huh?"

Arthur turned his attention to the distant woods, taking a look so long it's almost like he was studying the scene, memorizing it, "The trees will soon be bare," he said absentmindedly.

"Not so soon," said Alfred, just so Arthur knew, "It's warmer this year."

Arthur hummed.

"Kiku said it gets really quiet here in the winter. Not many people venture coming up the hill in snow, I guess." Alfred browsed through several records while he spoke. "Slowest time in the year."

"Snow does slow things down."

"Yeah, it's pretty, but quite inconvenient."

And when Arthur remained gazing to the distant green yellow crimson mountains, Alfred cleared his throat, "Y'know, I can get you some time in the courtyard if you want. It's not gonna hurt anyone."

"You can do that?" Arthur turned his head around, "and here was I, thinking that it wasn't for a junior to decide."

"I'm your attendant, and you've been doing great. You took your pills, got yourself out of quarantine and all that." Alfred closed one case files and picked up another one, "Like I said, no harm letting you get some fresh air."

"I doubted it though," said Arthur, "the lady wasn't quite happy that I wasn't in bed the last time she came around."

"I think you mean Jenny. She did mention you spending a little too much time in the bathroom," Alfred recalled, and out of curiosity he asked, "Honestly, what are you doing there all the time?"

"I'm digging a tunnel. I don't know if I'm half way through yet."

And when Alfred blinked in confusion, Arthur rolled his eyes, "_I was taking a bath._"

Alfred laughed. "Well, a long bath, you mean. But I'll take that answer since it's better than what I thought, like constipation or something. ...you ain't having constipation are you?"

Arthur sputtered, "_No!_"

"Hey y'know you can tell me that if it's true, right? You barely eat."

He could see that Arthur was surprised, but for what Alfred couldn't tell. It was like that he didn't expect this, which was really silly because Alfred was his attendant, and an attendant was bound to notice.

"No, I am not having constipation," Arthur emphasized, "and no, I can't eat much."

He mumbled just when Alfred though he was done, "It makes me sick."

Alfred wanted to give the man a pat on the back.

"That's...perfectly reasonable. The drugs you're taking can cost your appetite. It happens," he came across more serious than he had intended, "but you can really use some supply to win the battle. Just saying, 'kay?"

Arthur could surely understand. They were both aware of how consuming it was. Arthur was doing great and Alfred only wished for the best.

"Sometimes it feels so hot I can't even sleep," Arthur muttered, "and the sweat is frigging orange that I don't want it to get on the sheets. God knows what they'll say if they see it."

"Yeah, that's rifampin for you. If it's really that bad you can always call me."

"I doubt it will help."

"You know I'm good," Alfred grinned, and Arthur looked at him with questioning looks, "I took your headache away last time, remember?"

Arthur nodded after a long time, "Well, I suppose so."

"So there."

The silence stretched between them, but it wasn't entirely unpleasant, Alfred noted. It was the kind of silence that people shared at peace, without acknowledging the passing of time.

"Maybe I should take you to the courtyard, show you the way or something," Alfred said when Arthur turned the page by its corner.

"You mean now?"

"Well why not?" Alfred looked at the general direction of the folder pile, "Since I'm already behind due date, I guess they can wait."

"Well, I am not-"

"C'mon. Just a trip to the courtyard, not gonna take you much time, I swear."

"I don't think it's good idea," said Arthur, closing the book, "wondering around in this ludicrous..._thing_."

Alfred blinked, "What's wrong with the gown?"

"Beside being a sorry excuse for rags?"

"Then put on a jacket, or something," said Alfred, "I'll have to have a word with Jenny. Be right back."

Alfred knew everything would be just fine. Arthur was doing well and so far he himself had no call. It's just a walk.

Alfred explained to the nurse without too much trouble. Just like earlier.

He was there when Braginski examined Arthur's latest sample. The field under the microscope was blue and blurry, and Braginski had insisted that the sputum conversion was yet to be confirmed.

"I'm afraid our dear friend would have to stay in the isolation for a bit longer," sitting behind the microscope, Braginski said with a smile that grazed Alfred's nerve from day one, "There is still bacterium in it."

"_Bacterium,_" Alfred repeated firmly, "which meant you only found one."

"In case you didn't know, one that is still positive," Above the mask, Braginski's eyes had something childlike and _cheerful_ in them, "Sorry that I'm the one to tell you, but your treatment had failed."

"Get up, Braginski," said Alfred, "I'll check the slide myself."

"Check all you want. It's positive."

Had it been any other day, Alfred would have been very proud of himself for making Braginski spend an hour on the microscope just to spite him. He felt compelled to prove the pathologist wrong. It was one thing for Braginski to declare someone else's fate in his creepily icy morgue, and completely another to break it to the patient face to face. Arthur might be tough, but Alfred could already see the effect of isolation on him.

And there were other reasons.

"It's been reported that the sputum conversion may lag behind the culture one," Alfred explained after finishing searching through the field, "I only found one bacterium, _one!_ It barely stained."

"Let me see," said Kiku, and Alfred basically jumped out of the seat behind the microscope.

If asked, Alfred would say it was a good argument, perfectly valid, and he could surely cite its source of articles from well recognized journals, and yet he couldn't deny that there was something...something that he wasn't sure if it could fit solely under obligation.

He found it hard to ignore the crossed out dates on the calendar he gave Arthur.

But he had gained the permission from the head nurse the same way he earned the one from Kiku, and it must mean he was doing the right thing, right?

"Arthur you decent- wow man are you really going to wear that?"

Arthur looked greatly offended, "What?"

"Uh, suit coat over a gown?" Alfred just couldn't take the man serious when he was clad in that, "For real?"

"It's a sport coat you idiot," Arthur snapped, "you're the one that told me to put on a jacket-"

"Yeah, by jacket I mean _jacket_, no offense but uh," he tried not to but ended up laughing, "this?"

"Fine," Arthur shrugged off the sport coat, cursing under his breath.

Alfred looked over the man's shoulder to see what there was in choice. "Hey that one looks nice," he pointed as Arthur pushed away certain clothes grubbing through the inside of his trunk.

"That's," Arthur paused at the middle of his search, "that's my varsity jacket."

"Great! Put that on and we can go," he reached over to pull out the jacket and dropped it on Arthur's shoulder, "Gotta go before lunch break!"

"Wait, ah," Arthur knocked something off as he tried to make his arms go through the sleeves. He bent over to get it.

It was the calendar.

Something on it had caught Arthur's attention.

"...I'm scheduled to take a chest film today," he said straightening up.

"Then we can do it after the walk. No need to hurry."

Arthur frowned, "You are supposed to remind me, not the other way around."

"C'mon Arthur," Alfred made a face, forming quotation marks with the first two fingers of both of his hands, "_'I don't need a reminder.'_"

"But you're the doc- never mind."

"So you're going to call me _Dr Jones_ from now on?"

"Oh belt up," he set the calendar back on the bedside table, and fumed, "seriously how someone like you got in this job is beyond me."

Alfred just laughed.

Kiku had agreed on him getting Arthur out of the quarantine, conditionally. "You must understand, Alfred," he spoke with a stern face, "we cannot just let a tuberculosis patient out of isolation without being one hundred percent sure that they're no longer transmissible."

His tone was grave and his eyes bored into the junior, "So are you really sure?"

"Taking both the result of susceptibility test and the latest smear into consider, yes I'm sure."

"And I assume there is no other concern?"

Alfred gulped before he answered, "No."

There was a minute of silence; then Kiku said without further question. "Do a sputum smear tomorrow, and if it's negative, you can move him."

The trees in the courtyard shattered the light into a thousand flecks, and the cooling breeze left trails of gold, crispy leaves. For a brief second Alfred wondered how everything seemed so lighthearted in a simple autumn day, but he quickly got distracted.

"An empty bench!" Alfred ran, cheering at the luck. "Quick Arthur, that's a great spot!"

"...why are you so excited?" Arthur asked, sounding baffled.

Alfred sat down on the bench, "Of course I am! It's hard to get a seat here at lunch time," patting the empty space beside him, "man last time I got grass stains on my coat."

"Well that surely explains a lot," a small smile tugged at Arthur's mouth. He stopped a step away from the bench.

"From here you can see the whole place. Look," Alfred pointed, "trees, trails and the flower bed."

The courtyard wasn't very big, but attractive in a placid way. There were other people there. Though not in plain sight because of the trees and bushes, Alfred could hear the faint, indistinct whisper and occasionally, laughter. Often families took their time refreshing here, and Alfred knew because it was what he did sometimes as well. If there was anything that the ground of hospital could never make up, it would be the air of freedom.

"It's...nice."

"Told you."

"Now don't be insolent, git."

"Me? Never too insolent to share."

Arthur sighed. "Whatever."

"Aren't you going to sit down?"

"I thought you wanted to take a walk."

"'_Never stand when you can sit; never sit when you can lie down.'_ First thing I learned here," Alfred lay on the bench just for the effect. Leaves and branches shielded most of the sun; he could barely see the sky from there.

"Then why didn't you go for some place better?"

Alfred shrugged. "Not much different." He stared at the shade a bit longer; then sat up, "I can do my job anywhere; why not here?"

"I won't if I were you," Arthur spoke after moments of silence.

"Maybe that's the point. Doing something no one else will."

"You think that makes you special?"

"Could be, but that's not why I'm here." He stretched; arms toward the sky, "I'm here because I can."

"That's a stupid reason." Arthur said with a quiet voice.

Alfred's pager rang.

"Oops," glancing through the digital figures, he bounced up, "it seems someone is really pissed..."

"What happened?"

"I guess we'd better go get the chest film done."

The lunch hour reduced some effects, but the toll of time could still be seen, through every single door they walked past. The rooms were like frames, preserving a shot into the occupants' life. Husbands and wives holding hands, lovers the lay cuddling in the same sick bed, and there were people who had no one else at their side.

Alfred sometimes found the clinic livelier. It might not be the right word, but it's the closest one, and he was glad that the radiology section was not far from the out patient department.

"Why are there so many children?" Arthur asked while they turned around a corner.

"Halloween is near," Alfred called out to one of the kids, "Hey slow down, buddy! No running on the corridor!"

"They shouldn't be here."

Somehow Alfred knew what Arthur meant. As they walked past, Alfred saw a mother scalding her child just outside a patient room. The kid was no older than ten, and looked dejected and out of place when his mother talked down to him. There Alfred thought that might be what Arthur was saying. Children didn't belong here.

"Imagine what Kiku would do if there were no children here," said Alfred. He added as he saw Arthur's confused look, "he is the only pediatrician at the clinic."

"Oh."

"If we're lucky, we'll get to see what he's doing at Halloween."

"Maybe I should put the mask back on..."

"I told you, it's fine. Now, see?"

They were at the hall, waiting for the elevator to arrive. From where they were standing they could see the clinic, at the other end, separated from the main hall by a wall of glass doors. There was quite a distance but Alfred could tell that his mentor was just ushering one of his little patients out. Kiku bent down, handed something to the child, and waved them goodbye when the kid walked away with their mother.

"He always did this, giving out candies when it's Halloween," Alfred looked until the kid was out of his sight, and chuckled, "I guess he actually does it any time during the year."

"He did that too when he was at my school." Arthur remained watching while Kiku went behind the closed door of the inspection room.

The elevator was there.

The radiologist was angry. In fact, the radiologist was so pissed off that he only left a note telling Alfred to take the film himself, because he was done with his ever-changing schedule.

'_If you blow this place up, you're __doomed__,'_ said the ireful note.

Alfred was surprised that Arthur didn't use this seeming excellent chance to verbally whack him. He only appeared to be alert when he saw the note. He asked Alfred, "You blew up X ray machine?"

"Technically, no," said Alfred when he checked the set ups, "You'll have to take the jacket off, Arthur."

"Then why did he say that?" asked Arthur as he slid the jacket off his shoulders.

"Well, when I was in the med school," Alfred led him to the front of cassette stand, "I had a good time. Stand here, place the back of you hands on your hips, and roll your shoulder foreword, yes, just like that."

"And I supposed 'the good time' did not include blowing things up?"

"It included an MRI machine and an empty gas tank. Now pay attention, Arthur, the film is best taken at full inspiration, so when I count to three take a deep breath and hold it, okay?"

"I've done this before. I know what to do."

"Great then. I'll be right behind there. Now let's get this done."

It was a bet. Some of his classmates had insisted that the magnet field of an MRI machine only existed when said machine was on and functioning. Alfred and Gilbert didn't even bother to argue, so they found an easy way to prove people wrong. An easy, no less drastic way.

The result was a giant crushing sound, one week of detention, and pages over pages of valuation reports.

Gilbert said they should definitely do it again, and Alfred was really, really glad that it didn't get to his family, though he could somehow hear the imaginary lecture his brother Mathew addressed to him, _For God's sake what were you thinking Al? Destroying a delicate medical machine like that! Are you out of your mind? Can't you find a less stupid way to get yourself expelled?_

The chest radiograph seemed normal. There wasn't any new forming lesion beside the old one at the right lung field, and the mediastinum showed no swelling. That's all Alfred can tell at first glance. To get more information, he would have to compare the latest film to former one.

It's almost half past noon, and Alfred decided Arthur should better go back to his room first.

"You need to your lunch, and I need mine."

"Stop pressing the button; it's not going to make it go faster."

"I can try."

"Take the stairs. It's just two floors."

"Uh, I'm fine, but are you sure you're okay with that?"

"Like I said, it's just two floors."

"You're the man."

They got to the stairway and started going up step after step.

"I already spoke to Jenny. Just tell her about what time in a day you will be in the courtyard, and let her know once you're back, so she can do her work, okay?"

"Okay."

"I'll be away doing rounds after lunch. Don't peek at the records, or else!"

"No one is going to look at your hardly readable records."

"It'd better remain that way," Alfred laughed, "or I'll get into serious trouble."

"I don't even want to touch it, and that's simply because peeping is beneath my pride. Be glad."

"I showed you the way to the courtyard. If anything, we're even."

"You can't really think that-" Arthur coughed; Alfred found himself a few stairs ahead.

This time it didn't go away, and Arthur was grabbing rail for support as he almost doubled over in coughing. His body convulsed, heaving between the short window of each cough.

Alfred rushed to him, "Sorry Arthur I-," he reached out but Arthur batted his hand away.

"Just," he tried to stifle a cough but failed, "just a min."

"Take your time. I'm sorry I walked too fast," Alfred placed his hand on Arthur's back; this time it wasn't slapped away, "You shouldn't force yourself. Just tell me and I'll slow down."

After a moment that seemed to last forever, Arthur's breathing began to soothe. But his body remained tense. He wiped away a few stray tears and saliva, "Damn!" he cursed.

"It's okay," Alfred comforted, "You're getting better."

"Just not well enough," his voice was raw and his face flushed, "God I hate this."

"You're recovering. You hear me?"

Silence fell between them. Alfred couldn't see Arthur's whole face from that angle, and the fringe made it hard to read.

Then Arthur shook his head, looking as stern as always, "I'm fine. Let's go."

On the rest of the way back, Alfred was left to wonder if what he said had sunk in to Arthur.


End file.
